Twelve
by AshenMoon42
Summary: Remus spent eleven Christmases with the Marauders / Wolfstar / angst, romance, friendship


On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me...

A partridge in a pear tree.

(1971)

The tree was twisted, its trunk gnarled and made of dark, sticky wood, and its roots sprawling across the grounds. Eleven-year-old Remus Lupin stared out of the dormitory window, wiping away a layer of condensation from the glass. He shivered as the wind howled outside.

"Remus?" Came a whisper from the dark.

He turned back into the warmth. "What?"

"Are you alright?" From the plummy tone and sharp t, he was sure it was Sirius Black. The boy, sorted against his family's will into Gryffindor, was near as out-of-place as Remus himself. A glow of warmth followed the thought.

"I'm fine."

"What are you looking at? Aren't you cold, by the window?"

"Nothing. And I told you - I'm fine."

A pause from the other boy. "Happy Christmas, Lupin."

Remus sighed and looked out at the stars and the waxing moon. "Yes. Happy Christmas."

But the tree thrashed at the corner of his vision, waiting for him to join it in its rage.

.

Two turtle doves.

(1972)

The sky was bleak, and a light frost dusted the grass. It hadn't snowed yet this winter.

He sat on the bench by the lake, his astronomy homework on his lap, quill lying forgotten in his bandaged hand. Far from the shore, the water rippled and the tip of a tentacle poked above the waterline.

A yell from behind made him jump. "Remus!" Sirius bounded up beside him. "Come on, Lupin, a sprained wrist won't stop you from flying with us! You must be awfully bored!"

Remus shrugged. "I've never been one for Quidditch." He wrapped his cherry-red scarf tighter around his neck and shivered.

He looked over the lake again. A pair of birds circled above, and as he watched, a single white feather twirled down and landed gently on the surface of the lake. He wondered why they weren't safe and warm in their nests.

Siris shrugged right back at him and walked off, feet crunching in the frost.

Remus stared at his retreating back for a moment, before leaping up, dropping his homework at his feet. "Oi!"

Sirius turned around.

"Wait up, Black!"

.

Three french hens.

(1973)

Thirteen-year-old Sirius spoke in perfect French to his cousin with the heavy-lidded eyes. Remus stared from the sidelines.

"What is he saying?" James hissed from beside the werewolf.

Remus continued to gape. "I have no idea."

But he did know it was beautiful. He had never heard a language spoken in such a wonderful way. the way Sirius's lips curled around every syllable, how the words seemed to hang in the air after they'd been said.

When Sirius returned to their side, he looked confused. "What?"

Remus, James and Peter just shook their heads.

Sirius's face lit up as they walked back towards the warmth of the Gryffindor Tower. "So I'm staying at Hogwarts this year! No way can they make me go back home again; it was awful…"

.

Four calling birds.

(1974)

Boxing Day, fourth year, the Marauders (newly named) dragged Remus into the woods. Only a handful of birds were still around to sing and dance through the trees. A robin, in particular, red breast shining like crushed cranberries, sat nearby.

"Moony," James started, perching on a fallen log.

"Hmmm?"

"What would you say if we…" he trailed off.

"Spit it out, James. I'm cold."

"Well, we…"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "We're becoming illegal animaguses."

"Animagi," Peter said automatically, blushing when Sirius glared at him.

"Animagi," Sirius repeated. "It's … it's for you, of course. We don't want you to be alone. So we reckoned you might like some new chew toys, up there in the Shack."

Remus gaped. "...Chew toys? You expect me to bite you lot instead of myself? Merlin, you're thick. You thought I'd let you do this?"

"Remus, we know you'll let us. And even if you don't, you can't exactly stop us. We've started already."

He just looked at Sirius, whose trademark grin was hovering on his mouth. The dying sun shone through his hair like a halo. His eyes glinted.

"Oh, ferfucksake," Remus groaned.

.

Five golden rings.

(1975)

Christmas in fifth year is a full moon.

Ripping, tearing, shedding his human skin like wrapping paper until the Wolf is revealed underneath. Screaming, choking, howling at the cold face of the moon above. Running, prowling, then collapsing on the battered floorboards of the Shack in a sorry heap of fur and blood.

Padfoot is with him. The dog hasn't quite worked out how to stop the Wolf from hurting itself, but they're acquaintanced, at least, and he's glad that seems to be enough for the Wolf not to tear him apart at first opportunity.

The Wolf, medallion eyes gleaming in the dying moonlight, can only think, I would jump rings of fire for my dog, my loyal packmate. Rings of silver and fire.

.

Six geese a-laying.

(1976)

When did Sirius stop being a boy and start being a man? Remus couldn't stop the thought from drifting through his head.

Sirius, just turned sixteen and back from Christmas at the Potters', was taller now - not as tall as Remus, but at least average, though for the last few years he'd been small. His jaw was sharp, all chubbiness leaving his cheeks to reveal aristocratic cheekbones and…

Well, he was different.

Remus groaned. He was hiding in the toilets on the train, trying to push all Sirius-related thoughts out of his head. It had come all of a sudden. Of course, he'd liked Sirius, but when the new Sirius Black walked into their compartment on the train, all the breath had left Remus's lungs and all sensible thoughts had left his head.

Out the window, a skein of geese flapped past through the gentle fall of snow. They were just out of London.

He was supposed to be in the Prefects compartment. Groaning again, he straightened his robes, trying to will away the blush from his cheeks and the heat from between his legs.

Bloody hell. What had he done to deserve this?

.

Seven swans a-swimming.

(1977)

"Swim with me, Remus?"

It was January of sixth year and Remus had decided (entirely against his will) that he was completely smitten with Sirius Black. They were staying at the Potters' for Christmas, and the snow had battered down on them like an avenging demon.

"Moony? In the river."

Remus looked up from his book at Sirius, who stood shirtless (in this chill?), pointing towards the trees, beyond which there was a river. Remus blushed fro underneath his woolen hat.

"It's all … cold." He offered rather pathetically, refusing to look below Sirius's neck.

"Wet? That might be because it's winter, Remus. Look, it's clean and I'll cast warming charms and I really, really want to swim."

He had that look in his grey eyes and that smirk on his pink lips and it was really rather impossible to refuse.

"You're mad."

Sirius just nodded with that infuriating smirk.

"Oh, alright. Just let me find some towels."

.

Eight maids a-milking.

(1978)

The second term of seventh year was just beginning, and the girls walked carriage-to-carriage, milking the gossip from everyone they recognised.

McKinnon, skirt rolled and top button undone, leaned on the doorframe. James was off to find Evans and Peter had skittered off with him, so Remus and Sirius were alone in the compartment. "Hey, lads. Got a girlfriend yet, Black?"

"Nope."

"Interested in a relationship?"

"Not with you, McKinnon, so you might as well bugger off."

She huffed and left.

Sirius grinned at Remus, who blushed. "Shut up. Don't even-" And the curly-haired werewolf leaned forward and kissed him.

Last Christmas, by the river, towels resting low on hips, water dripping off their bare chests, each of them panting after far too long mucking about in the river. They'd each been staring, and their eyes met, and for a moment they'd just sat by the stream, shivering, before finally, Remus crashed into him, and their lips had met, and the cold had seemed to melt away, and that was that.

But no-one needed to know. Not even James. Especially not Marlene McKinnon.

.

Nine ladies dancing.

(1979)

They were out of Hogwarts, and they were in a pub, and it was a Friday night - two days before Christmas - and that sort of pub, so they had cleared the tables to make a little dance floor. A group of girls in too-short skirts with too-low necklines danced in the middle. Remus, James and Sirius sat at a table nursing a pint each.

A girl sashayed over. "'ello," she said, looking straight at Sirius. "One of you blokes want to dance with me?" She looked behind her, where her posse waited. "Actually, I'm sure my friends wouldn't mind if you all joined us." She still focused on Sirius.

James nearly stood, but Sirius tugged on a trouser leg. "No thanks, luv," he said. "You're not my type, really."

She huffed and stomped off.

James glared at Sirius. "What'cha do that for? She was my type, you bastard!"

Sirius shrugged. "Sorry, mate. You have a girlfriend, and she was looking at me, really. Didn't you notice?"

James groaned. "Why do they always look at you?" He frowned. "And since when did you have a type?"

Sirius looked quickly at Remus, then back down into his drink.

.

Ten lords a-leaping.

(1980)

Dumbledore leapt to his feet as the Marauders - and Lily - arrived at the door. A grim nod and a gesture to come in, and minutes later they were on a teal couch with cups of tea in hand.

The old man sighed and looked at each of them in the eye.

"There is a spy among us."

.

Eleven pipers piping.

(1981)

Remus hadn't heard from the Potters for a couple of months now, locked as they were behind the Fidelius. He'd assumed that they'd at least send letters, but he'd received nothing. He was cold and had never been so dirty in his life, not yet washed from a Full Moon that had been over almost three weeks ago. His bed was nothing but a patch of frozen bog, surrounded by fifty other filthy werewolves. They were battered by rain and snow and wind and the smells from beneath their feet.

The evening was new, but the stars were already out. They were near a Scottish town, and he could hear if he strained a little, the sound of joyful Christmas Eve bagpipes from the square. They rang around the little cage of his mind, before snuffing out like a candle without air.

Sighing, he looked up to the sky, where the stars glittered, safe high above the world and all its battles. The stars had never been coated in weeks of mud. The stars had never been forced to reduce themselves to a walking piece of gore. The stars, in their aloofness, had never felt such loneliness that Remus did now; they had never been abandoned by the only people who would ever call him a friend.

Sirius, the dog star, shining brighter than all its companions. Even Sirius, with his plummy voice and grey eyes and blinding smile, had left him now.

"It's not me," Remus whispered. "It's not me."

Who is it? His own voice hissed in his head.

Remus closed his eyes and sat back down in the mud.

.

Twelve drummers drumming.

(1982)

Some idiot decided they needed a full procession for the Potters' funeral. No-one had asked Remus, who knew the couple had wanted a quiet affair (in fact, he had not even received a formal invitation until he had floo'ed into Dumbledore's office in anger). They just bought the drums and the flowers and the marching band and people to carry the coffins and that's all there was to it.

It was nearly Christmas, a month and a half after that fateful Hallowe'en, and Remus sat in the chapel, waiting for the procession to arrive. He was nursing a newly broken leg (from his last days with the werewolves) and pushing back a flood of tears. He held a single lily tightly in his fist.

While half the wizarding world was marching beside those coffins in the cold, only the closest to the martyrs were welcome inside Godric Hollow's little chapel. Remus himself sat at the back, in the second-from-last row of pews, alone but for a man in religious garb who was lighting candles at the front.

The drumbeat came closer as the procession approached.

Remus thought of James and Lily, who had been too young to die. He thought of Harry, who he'd barely met because of the blasted fidelius and the blasted spy. He thought of poor Peter, dead in the bravest act of his life.

He didn't think of Sirius. He couldn't. Instead, he thought of Padfoot, curled at his side when he was shaking with moon-induced fever. He thought of a pair of lips forming French words, then that pair of lips on his own. He thought of a beautiful boy that was, not of the beautiful man he became.

Finally, as the drums stopped and the black-clad funeralgoers filed in, he felt a single tear drip past the scar on his cheek.

Twelve years. He'd been arrogant enough to think he was worthy of friends; this was inevitable, really.

* * *

Have a lovely winter whether you celebrate Christmas/Hanukkah/etc. or not, and a wonderful new year!


End file.
